at night I stand close to Angkar leaders
who invite us to their meetings in loudspeaker
the village chief speaks in slogans
but
like water to survive I must hold on to an individual idea
to keep strong because
to be reeducated is to be destroyed
the sweet potato
a young girl plants in the ground
five miles from the village commune
she does not know I am watching
she hums an Angkar
song walking home
*
Rithisal
his wife Rachana a singer
which camp is she we don’t know
her voice like milk when she sang
in secret Rithisal writes what leaders say or do
records the tortured witnesses young man hands tied eyes plead
stare straight into gun barrel floating in river
not so loud Rithisal not here
think of Rachana I say
but leaders suspect
Rithisal and me then send us to a place
called Tuol Sleng he whispers his kids used to go to school here
and where is Rachana looks away
*
we enter I forget which day but it is Year Zero the place Tuol Sleng
a prison people locked in stalls old people new people Khmer Rouge
maybe Pol Pot himself instruments of torture in the schoolyard
Rithisal writes won’t listen to me he writes
I ask him if he thinks his children are Angkar’s children now
he raises a fist says Whoever opposes
Angkar is a corpse Angkar never
makes mistakes Angkar
is everything Angkar cares for
us all
*
these fields rice paddies land mmes mass graves bodies bodies
no votes for ancient wonder of the world Rithisal takes notes on
medicinal experiments executions force-feed excrement forced confessions
babies thrown
then in the air
Rithisal tells me all the missing pictures
quiet not so loud here not here not so loud
not here not here not here not here
*
on air on air Year Zero Public Radio
what time is it what day is it
Year Zero everyone gone
Rithisal gone never see him again
world can you hear me can you hear me
find the sweet potato
in a hole dug up
look for the girl who planted it there
Sestina
There’s a sister who works so hard she never talks.
A sister who screams when she hears dogs bark.
A sister whose breasts have grown dry. A sister who always hides.
There’s a time comrades come to the hut.
They can’t tell who’s who—How many are you?
Where’s the other one hiding? That sister stays close,
somewhere in a hole, closed off with dirt.
Sometimes she sits with the sister whose baby lacked milk.
In her place of hiding, she cries, thinks of comforting words
but her mouth goes dry. In a far village,
where works the sister who never talks: the sunset.
Finally, it’s her chance. Time to run back,
but this time an owl screeches. She closes her eyes.
She disappears, pretends she’s the one who can fly.
That sister so quiet. How does that sister stay quiet?
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